


Fall Down At Your Door

by wesleysgirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 02:02:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleysgirl/pseuds/wesleysgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An apocalypse has left the world in shambles, most of the human population dead and the cities overrun with monsters. Dean Winchester, raised as an only child by a single mom who died in the apocalypse, spends his days driving across the country in his vintage Impala. He's rescued from a monster attack by a young stranger named Sam. The two get involved before they discover that the photo of his dad that Dean's been carrying around all these years is a photo of a man Sam recognizes, too. How will they deal with what they've found out? And how will they survive the post-apoc landscape?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall Down At Your Door

  
  


 

 

It feels like Dean's been on the road forever. No point in trying to settle down, he figures, since he wouldn't know what to do with that kind of life even if it were possible. So he keeps moving, through cities like ghost towns, through empty countryside, avoiding the big cities for a variety of reasons but mostly because there are too many rusting skeletons of cars on city streets and there's no way to get the Impala through. She's his baby, the only constant he can remember, and there's no way he'd leave her behind.

He carries a wallet in his pocket, his only other real reminder of the days before. On the nights he dares to light a fire, he takes out the wallet and opens it up, looks at the photos inside. He has a picture of the man he might have called his father, the man who bailed on his mom when Dean was still a toddler -- just took off, leaving the old Impala in the driveway, keys still in the ignition and a note on the counter telling Dean's mom to give the car to Dean when he was old enough to drive.

His mom almost never talked about his father. Thered been the occasional whispered phone call, but Dean didn't ask. It just made her sad, like the lock of hair she had tucked away in a ziploc baggie at the back of her sock drawer. Once Dean had caught her crying over it, and once he'd found a picture, too. A picture of a baby, barely past the newborn stage, that was most definitely not him because his mom had told him over and over how he was bald until he was almost two, and this baby had a crazy tangle of that same light brown hair from the baggie. Dean figured maybe he'd had a brother or sister that died. He could sort of remember a baby. It seemed weird that his mom wouldn't have told him about it, but he appreciated there being things you just didn't want to talk about, so he never asked about that, either.

There's a picture of Dean's mom in his wallet, too, smiling for the camera, one hand lifted to keep her hair out of her face, her skirt blown to one side. It must have been windy that day.

Dean wishes he could remember the sound of her voice, but he can't. Sometimes, in his dreams, she's there and talks to him, but when he wakes up, her voice is always gone, carried away by that same wind.

 

~ * ~ * ~

 

_The night the world changed, Dean went to bed a little after midnight and fell into a heavy sleep, so heavy that when the world as he knew it ended he didn't even wake up. In the morning, bleary-eyed and hoping there'd be coffee already brewed, he staggered downstairs to an empty kitchen._

_"Hey, Mom?"_

_There was no answer, and the house was eerily quiet._

_"Mom?"_

_The front door was open and the screen door wasn't latched -- as he stood there, still only half-awake, it banged against the frame. It was a noise that would get annoying really, really fast, so Dean went to shut it and tripped over his mother's body as he went around the corner into the front hall._

_For a few very long minutes, he just stood there blinking down at her, all conscious thought fled. There was blood on her lips and her eyes were open. Her blouse was dark with blood stains and one of her legs was half underneath her, twisted unnaturally. He kept blinking like maybe at some point, in the second his eyes were closed, things would go back to normal and shed be standing in front of him, asking him if he was okay._

_The screen door banged against the frame again._

_"Mom?" Dean said finally, which was stupid, because she was obviously dead. She was never going to answer him again. She'd never make him that weird scrambled-egg-potato-onion thing, or yell at him for tracking mud onto a freshly washed floor, or run her hand over his hair one last time before she went up to bed._

_It occurred to him that whoever did this could still be in the house, so he turned and picked up the phone to dial 911. He'd already pushed the '9' before it sunk in that there was no dial tone; when he checked, his cell phone didnt have any bars, either. What the hell? Why --_

_Outside, a scream rent the air, piercing and more filled with terror than any scream in a horror movie Dean had ever seen (and he'd seen a lot). He moved to the front door and shoved open the still-unlatched screen, stepping onto the landing. Across the street, on the lawn of the Miller's house, Mrs. Miller was being attacked by two -- well, monsters was the word for them, Dean knew that, even though it was impossible._

_There was no fucking_ way _he was watching monsters attack his neighbor in her front yard._

_She must have caught sight of him, because she screamed his name, stretched out a bloody hand in his direction, and _that_ caught the attention of one of the monsters. It must have decided that he looked like a tastier meal than Mrs. Miller -- it stood up and ran toward him, blood and saliva descending from its mouth in long strands._

_Dean's heart was pounding in his chest as he stepped back inside and slammed the door. The monster hit it from the other side a second later, the thud strong enough that it made the frame shake and the plaster wall crack. Dean staggered back, fear choking him, and stumbled over his mom's feet. He lost his balance and fell on his ass, biting his tongue at the same time. "Shit!"_

_A few seconds later, the window in the living room exploded as the ceramic birdbath sailed through it, and Dean got to his feet and ran. Where could he go? He thought furiously about potential weapons and burst out the back door heading for the shed, heavy footsteps and snarls right behind him. Stones in the yard under his bare feet went ignored -- he was too busy running full-out, fingers curled and ready to undo the ancient, rusty latch on the shed door, and then he was inside and his hands were closing around the handle of the ax._

_He whirled -- too late -- and the monster was on him, knocking him to the floor, his knee slamming into the side of the lawnmower and going instantly pins-and-needles. Somehow, he managed to get the ax up as the monster fell down on him, making an unholy noise. Dean's wrists were forced back against his chest, tendons screaming, and then --_

_The monster went still._

_On top of him. Jesus, the thing weighed three hundred pounds at least; he could feel hot blood soaking into his shirt front and knew that he'd just gotten as lucky as it was possible to get because the thing had fallen onto the ax blade._

_After he'd heaved himself free and stood up, he started to shake. Not just his hands, but all of him. He swallowed, tasted blood, and had to clench his teeth and fists to keep from puking. Unthinkingly, he shut the door, barricaded it with a couple of boards, and sat down._

_Outside he could hear more screams. In a minute, he'd go investigate. As soon as he stopped feeling like he was going to puke, and once he'd stopped shaking._

_In just a minute._

 

 

~ * ~ * ~

 

 

He's in Nebraska when he finds the girl in an abandoned roadhouse. He thinks it's empty at first, and intends to only take a quick look in case there's anything useful inside, but when he goes around the corner of the bar he sees her, all big eyes and the cold steel glint of the knife in her hand.

"Get out of here," she says, voice shaky but stubborn.

"Hey," Dean says, lifting his hands up, palms toward her. "I was just looking around. Didn't mean any harm."

"Yeah, well, this place is mine," the girl says, and actually takes a step toward him. She makes a menacing gesture with the knife. "So get out."

Dean shrugs his shoulders, gives her one of his hopeful grins. "Thought maybe I'd find some food." It isn't a lie -- he hasn't eaten since yesterday and his stomach is so empty it aches.

"What, I'm supposed to feel all sorry for you and offer to make you something?" The girl rolls her eyes and relaxes a little bit. "I'll bet that works for you all the time."

"Sometimes," Dean admits. "Look, I promise I won't hurt you, okay? I won't even touch you. If it makes you feel any better, I'm into guys. Like, _into_ them." Its only half a lie, because hes into girls, too, but he figures its the kind of thing thatll help her relax.

"Okay, I get it." The girl makes a face, but his words do seem to have reassured her, because she relaxes some more and lowers her knife and offers, "There's some canned stuff in the supply room. Ran out of propane a couple months back."

Dean nods and looks past her to the door that leads to the supply room. "I'm Dean."

"Jo."

"How long have you been here?"

She snorts. Feels like forever."

"Yeah. You grew up here?" Dean starts toward the supply room door, and Jo backs away, keeps distance between him. She's not stupid, then. That's something.

"Sort of. I was away when... so I came back."

There's more than just canned food on the shelves; there are boxes of crackers, spices, flour. But when Dean starts moving them around, he finds that the cardboard boxes and paper cartons have been nibbled at the bottom, and there's a scattering of droppings on all the flat surfaces. "Gross," he says, to no one in particular.

Jo says, "Yeah, there are a lot of mice. Probably a few rats, too, but I haven't seen any of them. The mice, though. They even tried to chew through some beer cans, I think."

"There's beer?" Dean asks. Not that he'd drink any now, not when his hands are shaking, his blood sugar crazy-low, but he could always take some for... okay, for some totally impossible future in which things might be safe enough to chance getting drunk. It's kind of a nice idea, though.

"It's a bar," Jo says as Dean picks up four cans, cradling them between his arm and chest, and steps back outside into the main room.

"There a can opener?" He'll open the cans with his knife if he has to, because he doesn't want to go digging around in the Impala for the can opener he's pretty sure is in there somewhere.

Jo points to it, sitting on a nearby table, and Dean gets to work fast. The can opener's a little bit rusty, but the cans themselves seem clean enough. Good thing -- he's not in the mood for an old-fashioned case of botulism. One can is mixed vegetables, which taste damned fine right then, salty and kind of mushy. The second doesn't have a label, and when Dean opens it he's pretty sure it's dog food until he sees the big chunks of carrots. And he's hungry enough to have at least considered eating dog food, but that doesn't mean he's any less relieved that it's beef stew, even if the beef might well be horse meat. He shovels it in, barely chewing before he swallows, feeling the food settle in his stomach like a heavy, comforting weight.

He stops eating after that because he doesn't want to chance puking it all back up again. Better to give it some time to settle.

"You really were hungry," Jo says. She tucks her blonde hair back behind her ear and frowns. "You still can't stay here."

"That's okay, sweetheart," Dean tells her. In his veins, under the thrum of his heartbeat, he can hear the sound of the road calling to him just like always. "I never stay anywhere."

 

~ * ~ * ~

 

He leaves Jo there, not telling her any of the things it's obvious she won't want to hear, like "be careful." It'd just piss her off, and anyway, if she's survived on her own this long, chances are she already knows what she needs to know. Being careful won't always save you, but it's a start.

Outside Omaha, Dean drives past a group of monsters feeding off a carcass. Most of the time the things seem to prefer fresh meat, which means the guy -- or maybe it's a girl, it's not like it's possible to tell at that point, and there's no way Dean would consider trying -- hasn't been dead long. Still, when you've got half a dozen monsters tearing the flesh from your bones with their needle-sharp teeth, it's a hell of a lot better to be dead than alive. Only one of the monsters looks up as he drives past, and it doesn't make the slightest move to follow, but it's still a good twenty minutes before Dean relaxes again, his heart slowing from rapid thuds to something more normal.

He sleeps in the car that night, something he doesn't like to do unless he has to. The car, the closest thing he's had to a home for years, isn't secure the way a building is, but it's a hell of a lot better than sleeping out in the open, which he's had to do on at least a couple of occasions, although calling it 'sleep' isn't really accurate. When you don't have a secure place to spend the night, it's more like being on guard with your eyes closed. Those have been the few times Dean wished he wasn't alone -- when it would have been good to have someone to watch his back.

The rest of the time, he tells himself he's fine on his own.

Dean wakes up as the sun is starting to rise. He has a crick in his neck and an ache in his left thigh where he's got a scar deep enough that the skin is still twisted and pink a couple of years later. Sometimes, when there's a storm coming, he can feel it in his previously broken bones -- three fingers in his right hand, his left wrist, ribs on both sides. If the world was different, he'd think he wasn't old enough to know when the weather's changing based on how he hurts. As it is, it doesn't come as a surprise.

He only drives a couple of miles before he starts to run out of gas. He's got a few gas cans in the trunk, and at least two of them have some gas in them, so he pulls over when he gets to a place where he can see in all directions and climbs out. Sand on the road crunches under his boots, and when the wind shifts he can smell something familiar and unpleasant, sickly-sweet, like something rotting.

There's also a faint sound. Whimpering.

Great.

Dean doesn't waste any time dumping all of the gas into the tank and putting the empty cans back in the trunk. He shuts the trunk without slamming it -- being quiet has become second nature -- and hesitates, one hand on the cool black metal of the Impala. Fuck it; all he has to do is save his own skin, he doesn't have to save everyone. He gets behind the wheel and almost turns the key. Stops. Punches the wheel with both fists and swears under his breath, then climbs back out, still swearing and dragging the shotgun that spends most of its time lying across the passenger seat after him.

Hes immediately faced with the usual dilemma -- to shout out for whoever it is thats hurt, which will shorten the search considerably but risk getting the attention of any monsters that might be nearby, or to keep quiet and hope he can find who he's looking for.

This time, Dean decides to keep quiet. There are some broken down cars off to the west, and some piles of who the hell knows what just behind him. Somebody could be hiding in either place... and Dean is practical. He knows theres a point where putting his own neck at risk isnt worth it. But the thought that it could be a kid is what makes him creep quietly toward the stack of boxes since thats closer than the abandoned cars.

Its still cold even though the sun is almost up. Dean can see his breath in the air. A few feet away from the edge of the junk pile, he stops and listens. Nothing. Tightening his hand on the grip of the 12 gauge, Dean grimaces, then whispers, Hey. _Hey_.

Nothing, then just as hes getting ready to turn away, a tiny sound of movement. He waits. Another sound, flesh sliding across broken pavement, and then what used to be a person drags itself into view and Dean lifts the shotgun and shoots it, right in the middle of the chest. It gurgles and slumps down, blood flowing sluggishly into a shallow puddle.

Dean doesnt make it back to the car before he throws up. He kneels on the ground and heaves until theres nothing left in his stomach, and then a few more times for good measure. He knows its going to be a long time until the memory of it fades; the twisted limbs ending in stumps, the missing jaw. He pukes again, gagging on saliva and bile, then forces himself to his feet and staggers to the car. Sitting behind the wheel makes him feel a little better. Feeling the engine roar to life helps even more.

He puts her into drive and steps on the gas. Doesnt look back.

 

 

~ * ~ * ~

 

He gets a flat tire as he's driving at the outskirts of a town in Kansas. It's been a while since he had one, so for a few seconds the *kuh-thunk* sound and pull to the right just confuses him, but then he realizes what it is and steps on the brakes. Grumbling, he gets out and kicks the tire sullenly, and because he's looking at it and sulking the monsters that jump him take him totally by surprise.

Dean's on the ground before he can do more than blink in surprise, the wind knocked out of him and then a flare of hot pain in his right arm. He twists desperately, punches the monster on top of him in the face with his left fist, and scrambles to get his feet under him. It's no good, though -- he's surrounded, it's starting to get dark, and he's fucked, _fucked_. Shit, all this time he's managed to keep himself in one piece -- mostly -- and it all comes down to this. Well, screw it; if he's going out, he's going out fighting. No way he's going to lie down and die.

There's a flurry of punches, and he can feel the blood trickling down his arm. How much damage can he do before they take him out? He tries to get back to the car, to the shotgun, but abandons the idea when his ankle takes a sickening wrench that leaves his head whirling.

Then, from nowhere, he hears gunshots.

It sounds like a rifle. One of the monsters grunts and goes down beside him -- Dean turns his head and sees it's dead, eyes open and staring. The others scatter and run, and Dean rolls over onto his back, arm throbbing, and looks up at the sky. Huh. Clouds moving across the darkening sky, drifting over the moon. He blinks, and there's a man standing over him, rifle in one hand and the other held out to Dean, an offer to help him to his feet.

"Can you get up?" the man asks. His hair is long and shaggy, like he's been cutting it with a knife and doing a shitty job.

"Yeah," Dean says.

"Good." The guy turns his head, checking their surroundings, then closes strong fingers around the hand Dean slips into his and tugs, pulling Dean up off the ground like it's easy. Which maybe it is, considering.

"Anyone ever tell you you're freakishly tall?" Dean asks.

The man smirks, the expression making his face much younger. "Do you always insult people who save your life?"

"I don't know. This is a first. Ahh, fuck." Dean tries to inspect his bleeding arm, but it's too dark to see much.

"Come on," the guy says, impatient. "We've got to get out of here. I have a place -- it's not too far."

"Good," Dean says. "Because I don't feel much like walking."

Tall Guy gestures at Dean's foot. "Is it broken?"

"I don't think so. Hurts like hell, though." Oh, hey. "I'm Dean."

"Sam."

They don't shake hands, because they've already done that, sort of, and there's a guy thing about how much touching is allowed. Instead, they start walking in the direction Sam points out, Dean limping and muttering under his breath.

It isn't easy, leaving the Impala behind. Dean makes a silent promise that he'll be back for her.

 

~ * ~ * ~

 

Sam's 'place' is a motel that looks like it was a hotbed for prostitution.

"Dude, seriously?" Dean says. Press board furniture?

"I know," Sam tells him, unblocking the door and then waiting for Dean to step inside. "Sit down -- we've got to get you cleaned up before you get an infection. Seen way too many of those. Ive just got to get this stuff. Hes already putting a collection of boards back in place, some of them sliding across the doorway and others as braces.

Peeling off his outer shirt, Dean yanks his T-shirt up to bare the bite mark on his arm. "Gross." He's still bleeding, but sluggishly now, and he sits down on the chair near the front desk, glad to get off his ankle, which feels like it's swelling under his boot.

He has to grit his teeth as Sam cleans out the bite wound.

"Okay, enough already," he says finally.

"I think you could use a couple of stitches," Sam says.

"Nah, just whack a big band-aid on it and call it a day," Dean tells him. "What, I'm suddenly supposed to start caring about scars?"

Sam gives him a look and shakes his head, maybe in amusement. "How's the ankle?"

"Hurts."

"Well, we don't have any ice, but there are some of those chemical cold packs; they're better than nothing." Sam rocks back onto his feet and stands, towering over Dean. "Don't move."

"Don't worry." It's funny -- this is the most interaction with another person Dean has had in ages, but it feels completely natural.

Sam comes back with a cold pack and a worried expression as he kneels down at Dean's feet. "This'll probably hurt."

"No shit, Sherlock. Just do it." He braces himself as Sam takes hold of the heel of his boot and pulls, then grabs onto the arm of the chair and lets loose. "Fuck! Holy fucking shit, goddamn fucking hell. Fuck. Fuck." It's done, at least, though Sam is looking at him with concern. "What, you want me to say I'm sorry? It fucking hurts."

"Apparently." Sam drags another chair over, slams a fist against the cold pack to activate it, wraps it around Dean's ankle, and props his foot up on the chair. "Okay, now just... breathe. You want some ibuprofen?"

"I want some fucking _morphine_ ," Dean mutters. "Yeah, I guess. Thanks."

The painkillers barely take the edge off even at twice the suggested dose, but they're better than nothing. After the heat of Dean's body has warmed the cold pack to room temperature, Sam helps him hop down to the hall to one of the rooms and gets him settled on a bed. "I'm right next door," Sam says, pointing. "Just call me if you need anything."

"I've gotta get back to my car," Dean says, but he has to raise his voice because Sam has already disappeared into the hallway.

"Not tonight you don't," Sam says, and since there's not really any arguing with that, Dean sighs and laces his fingers together over his abdomen.

 

~ * ~ * ~

 

He wakes up confused, forgetting where he is, heart pounding. Blearily, he looks around the room -- God, it's awful, with ugly lanterns taking the place of regular light fixtures and horrific flowered wallpaper -- and sees Sam sitting on the other bed, legs folded underneath him, a book in his hands. "Hey," Sam says.

"Hey," Dean says.

"If you're awake, I'll get out of your hair," Sam tells him. "It's just, well..."

"What?"

"It sounded like you were having a nightmare or something. Thought it might help to see a friendly face when you woke up." Sam grins at him tentatively, and Dean finds himself grinning back.

"What time is it?"

"I have no idea. Late morning, I guess. The sun's been up for a while." Sam's got a finger tucked into the pages of his closed book, saving his place. "Hungry?"

"Starving."

Within ten minutes Sam is back with two bowls -- one has canned peaches in it, glistening in thick syrup, and the other --

"Dude, no _way_ ," Dean says, taking the warm bowl between his hands and inhaling the scent of it. "Where the hell did you find corned beef hash?"

Sam snorts. "Found a bunch of stuff in a basement about a mile from here. I think it was people who were, I don't know, stocking up in case of zombie attack or something." He makes a face. "Which I guess there sort of was."

Dean rolls his eyes and shovels the first bite of hash into his mouth, almost moaning at how good it is. "I don't think those things are zombies."

"No, you're right. I have seen something that might have been -- at least, they were really interested in my brains -- but most of them are, you know. Vampires, werewolves. Guy came through swearing he'd seen an abominable snowman."

"Seriously? Like, a yeti?" Dean is more interested than he should be, considering he has a hot meal in front of him. "Hey, you've got a stove."

"Yeah -- it's one of those camp stoves, with the propane cylinders? I only have a couple left, but I figured having an actual living human being here qualified as a special occasion. I guess it's been... almost a year." Sam sits down on the other bed again. "What about you?"

"What, since I ran into a human being? Not as long as that. There was a girl at a roadhouse in Nebraska, a couple of months back. She didn't like me much. I'm pretty sure she was glad that I didn't want to stick around." Dean offers Sam a half-smile.

"Why didn't you?" Sam asks. "I mean, settle down somewhere, not necessarily there."

"Guess it's not in my blood," Dean says, his grin widening, and he's glad when Sam leaves it at that.

There's a stack of old Playboy magazines half under the bed. They're dust-covered, so Dean figures they aren't favorites of Sam's, but they're good enough for him to jerk himself off to once Sam has left him alone. Girls with big tits and tiny nipples and their pink, pouty lips curved into naughty smiles. _Hey, honey,_ their silent mouths say. _You want to take me to bed and do_ what _with me? Oh, you dirty boy._ Which of course Dean is, in the best of all possible ways. He has to wipe his stomach off with his hand and then clean his fingers between the mattress and box spring afterward, but the endorphins are worth it.

 

~ * ~ * ~

 

Two days later, Dean is bored as hell but he still can't put much weight on his ankle. He wishes fervently for a working television set and tries not to think about the Impala, which could be ripped to shreds by now. The second day, Sam leaves the motel for what he says will be a couple of hours, but which turns out to be five. By hour four, Dean is starting to get twitchy but doesn't quite know why -- he's in a safe place, he's got food. Sure, his ankle is fucked, but there's time for it to heal. So why does he keep glancing toward the door and listening for Sam's step?

He shouldn't have let Sam go out on his own. Should have insisted that he wait a couple of days, until Dean can get around again, back him up. It's weird, thinking about working _with_ somebody instead of alone, but somehow now that Dean has considered it, it seems right.

He's on the verge of forcing himself upright and limping down the hall, ankle be damned, when he finally, _finally_ hears Sam coming back in.

"You okay?" Dean shouts.

"Yeah. Hang on a minute." Sam looms in the doorway less than his requested minute later. His hair is more mussed up than usual and his shirt is torn.

"What the hell happened? You've been gone for five hours! Are you hurt?" Dean is standing up with no memory of how he got there.

"You're the one who's hurt, remember?" Sam asks, rolling his eyes like Dean's the king of overreaction. "Sit down, you idiot."

"Oh, _I'm_ the idiot? You're the one who can't tell time."

But Sam comes over and stands beside the bed as he peels off his long-sleeved shirt to reveal the short sleeved tee and his scratched upper arm. It looks like -- "They didn't get me," Sam says, seeming to know exactly what Dean is thinking and wanting to reassure him. "It was just a nail or something. It's not deep."

"Lemme see it anyway," Dean grumbles, and Sam lets him look, then obediently goes off the bathroom to wash it out.

Sam comes back and sits next to Dean. His skin is warm. Hes solid and reliable, and Dean realizes he smells good. Dean's been looking at way too much porn, because he's getting hard, his dick swelling uncomfortably where it's tucked inside his jeans.

"Think you'll live?" he asks gruffly, and gives Sam a little shove with his knee.

"Yeah." Sam turns to look at him. Up close, Dean can see Sam's eyes are a combination of brown and green, and his mouth is -- on Dean's.

Sam is kissing him.

Sam is _kissing_ him.

Sam is --

"We don't have to," Sam murmurs against his lips. "It's just -- we could. If you wanted to."

Dean doesn't consider himself a slut, but he's not the kind of guy who lets opportunities pass him by, either. He's messed around with plenty of girls and a couple of guys, too, and doesnt care if that makes him bi or just not all that picky. His cock doesnt seem to mind either way.

Even without any of that, there's no way he'd say no to Sam.

"C'mere," he says, and tugs Sam down to lie beside him so they can kiss some more.

Sam's mouth is wide and generous on Dean's, and his hands are fucking _huge_ no matter where they are, on Dean's shoulder or back or ass or thighs.

It's the first time Dean has ever really let himself go during sex -- the first time he's been able to, because he's in a safe place where he doesn't have to worry about something sneaking up on him. It feels like a luxury, being able to relax into the experience so completely. It makes Dean want to do this for hours, makes him spend long minutes running his palms over Sam's bare skin and even longer ones following up with his lips and tongue. He likes the way Sam's dick fits into his fist and the taste of the tender skin over Sam's hip bone; he likes the surprised grunt that escapes Sam when he licks the already-damp tip of his cock.

"God, Dean," Sam murmurs, gripping a handful of the comforter. "Yeah. Just -- do whatever you want, okay?" He laughs a little bit, breathlessly, then groans as Dean works him open with the help of a little hand lotion, two fingers inside tight heat to the second knuckle.

"We don't have to," Dean says hoarsely.

But Sam gasps and shakes his head, eyes closing as his head tips back. "I want you to."

Dean takes his time, waits until Sam is as hot for it as he is, before he pushes into him. Sam's on his back, pupils hugely black in his green-flecked brown eyes, jaw clenched because it's always a shock to the system in those first few seconds. "Okay?"

"Yeah."

He stays still -- not as easy as it sounds -- and waits until Sam relaxes before he starts moving, and then as soon as he does any semblance of control flies right out the window. Sam feels so fucking _good_ clenched around him, and it's been so long since he felt this good that as much as he wants it to last forever, it can't. It's too good to last, and Dean is pathetically grateful when Sam comes after half a dozen thrusts so he can follow suit, orgasm rushing out of him in a flood of heat, leaving him weak, chest heaving and biceps trembling as they support his weight.

Dean can feel sweat beaded at his hair line as he eases back and then lets himself collapse onto the bed beside Sam. "You're a bad influence, you know that?" he says, wincing at the way his voice shakes.

Sam laughs. "You're full of _shit_ , you know that?" and Dean, helpless against the upturn of Sam's lips, laughs, too.

 

~ * ~ * ~

 

They don't talk about it, though. There are a couple of moments when they glance at each other at the same time and their eyes meet, moments when one or both of them might lie and say that it didn't mean anything, but neither of them does. They smile and look down again at whatever they're doing -- Dean trying to get an old gun Sam found somewhere working again even though they don't have a single bullet for it, Sam sharpening his collection of knives, whatever -- and don't say a word. It's like there's some kind of unspoken agreement between them, they can do it but talking about it's against the rules. Dean's cool with that.

 

~ * ~ * ~

 

"Sam, I _can't_ ," Dean whines, his head thudding back against the wall. It sounds hollow -- a thought that makes him grin for a split second, because he knows if he voiced it Sam's retort would be _"What, the wall? Or your head?"_. But only for a split second, because Sam's mouth is closing around the tip of his softening dick, hot and insistent, and _damn it_ , Dean _can't_ get hard again, not when he just finished coming for what felt like three or four minutes.

"Yeah?" Sam licks the crease between Dean's thigh and balls. "Let's see. You know, just to be sure." And goes back to work, mouthing and breathing hot air across Dean's skin until he's shivering and discovering that, huh, maybe he _can_ get hard again. Who knew?

Sam, of course, knows. Sam seems to know an awful lot about Dean, instinctively, and that's kind of reassuring and scary at the same time. Dean isn't sure how he's supposed to feel about something like that, or what to call it, and anyway the world is too fucked up to consider the possibility of something as normal as what this can't be.

The next thing Sam does is turn Dean to face the wall, fingers dug firmly into Dean's hips and thumbs spreading him wide, and then Sam's _tongue_ is in Dean's _ass_ and all thought flees because there's nothing Dean can do but feel it. His cock aches from pressing against the drywall by the time Sam finally, _finally_ fucks him, slow and deep and unrelenting like a force of nature Dean can't and doesn't want to control. Hell, it isn't like he can control anything, really, no matter how much he wants to pretend otherwise, but just then he doesn't even want to pretend. He just wants Sam to keep it up, the slick, easy push of Sam's big dick stretching him open, driving the air from his lungs and all conscious thought from his head.

"Dean," Sam whispers. One big hand slides up to Dean's solar plexus and settles there, fingers splayed, another stranded starfish keeping Dean from drifting too far. "Jesus, Dean. Where --"

But Dean doesn't get to hear the rest of the question; Sam whimpers and comes, biting down on Dean's shoulder.

Later, Dean shakes his head. Starfish? Drifting? Who the hell would have guessed sex turns him into some wannabe poet? But he finds himself bumping his knee against Sam's when they sit next to each other, plucking a stray hair from Sam's sweater, and he knows he's in an even bigger world of trouble than before.

 

 

~ * ~ * ~

 

 

"I want to go get my car," he announces the next morning, and Sam glances up at him.

"It's almost a mile."

Dean shrugs. "So?"

"So you're still limping." It's that simple to Sam.

"It's daylight," Dean argues, which is stupid because he doesn't need Sams permission. Hes his own man and he can do what he wants. "I can get the spare onto her in fifteen minutes, tops."

Sam shakes his head. "Give it another couple of days."

"No." Dean can't say for sure why he's suddenly gone all stubborn. Chances are the Impala's untouched and will stay that way for some time, but the car's been the closest thing to home for years and it doesn't feel right to leave her on her own. "You don't have to come -- it's cool. Just point me in the right direction and I'll be back in an hour."

The look Sam gives him is stubborn, too, and maybe something else. But why the hell would Sam be pissed off about the car? "Fine. Whatever. You want to go and get yourself killed, that's none of my business."

It takes a good minute for that to sink in -- oh. _Oh_. Sam's _worried_ about him. "You jackass," Dean says fondly. "I'm not gonna get killed. You think I lasted all this time through luck?"

Sam sighs; his shoulders drop. "I guess I just got used to having you around." He grins a little, but it looks strained. "Plus I don't want to have to come pull your ass off out of trouble again."

"Like you'd have to," Dean scoffs. "If I'm not back in forty-five minutes, I'll do the cooking tonight."

"Oh, hooray," Sam says. "Look, it's fine -- I'll come with you. I just -- I slept like crap last night. Maybe I'm coming down with something." Now that he mentions it, he _does_ look a little pale.

"Stay here -- take a nap. I'll see you in a little while."

With a carefully scribbled map in his hand, Dean walks back to the Impala without incident despite the lingering ache in his ankle. She's still in one piece, though there are some scratches along the front of her hood that Dean slides his fingers over, frowning. It doesn't take him more than ten minutes to get the spare on -- and it's not a cheap donut, it's a replacement wheel and tire, ready to go -- and start her up. She gives a slow, solid rumble like she's clearing her throat, then he presses on the gas pedal and there's the roar he counts on, his girl leaping forward under him.

As promised, he's back at the motel before an hour has passed. "Dude, I'm back! Now you have to cook!" It was a stupid bet, because Sam _always_ cooks, but it's the principle of the thing. Sam doesn't answer -- bitch is probably sulking. "Yo, Sam!"

Still no answer, which very quickly starts to freak Dean out. He hastily re-barricades the door.

"Sam?"

He heads for the room they've been sharing. No Sam, but the door to the bathroom is open and Dean has the distinct impression that Sam is in there.

"Dude, don't even tell me you're in there jacking off." Dean drops his gun down on the bed as he heads for the open door, still talking. "You jerk, for a minute I thought something was really wrong --"

But Sam is down on the floor next to the tub, pale and sweaty and shaking

"Sam? Jesus, you really _are_ sick." Dean kneels next to him, the tile hard against his knees through the layer of his jeans as he reaches to touch Sam's forehead. "Fuck, you're burning up. Come on, let's get you to bed."

Sam doesn't protest, and doesn't help much. He mutters something as Dean pushes him onto the bed.

"What?"

"Arm," Sam manages, and then gives a muffled cry when Dean closes his fingers around his bicep.

It's frustratingly hard to wrestle Sam's not-one-but-two shirts off him, but once he has Dean can see the problem. What had been a small scratch a couple of days before is now reddened and angry, the edges of the wound separated by a dark red slash of raw meat. The whole thing is swollen, darker lines running upward along Sam's arm, and Sam is radiating heat like crazy. "Fuck," Dean says in dismay, because this is the worst infection he's ever seen on an actually living person, and he has no idea what to do about it. "I thought you cleaned this out."

"I did," Sam says. His eyes are closed, his lips parted as he breathes. "Thought it was... getting better."

"Yeah, well, you thought wrong." Dean rubs his forehead and tries to think. "I don't know how to fix this, Sam. You need -- I don't know, antibiotics or something."

"Need to clean it out for real," Sam mumbles. "Get the -- in the office, there's a box. First aid stuff."

"Okay. Okay, right."

Cleaning out the wound isn't as bad for Dean as it is for Sam, but it's bad enough. Dean's shaking by the time it's done, his t-shirt stuck to him with cold sweat in the face of Sam's pain.

"Jesus," Dean whispers under his breath, even though he'd swear he doesn't pray. "God, Sammy..."

Sam is hotter than hell, and the skin around his lips is white. "Sorry."

"Shut up," Dean tells him. "Don't be sorry, you idiot. You got any penicillin or anything?"

Sam just lies there, panting, and doesn't answer even though his eyes are open. Dean takes Sam's face between his hands, wincing in sympathy at the heat of Sam's skin.

"Sam. Come on, stay with me."

Sam swallows like it's hard work. "Yeah. 'm with you. There's, uh, pharmacy. 'bout a quarter of a mile."

"Okay," Dean says. "Okay, good. I'll find it."

Leaving Sam there on his own isn't easy, but Dean knows he doesn't have a choice. Sam has one hell of an infection, the kind that'll kill him if Dean can't get some antibiotics into him, and the thought of being alone again, without Sam, makes Dean's jaw tighten and his fists clench.

The pharmacy is only a couple of blocks away, and the sun is still high overhead. Dean has enough sense to thank God -- or he would if he believed in God, which he's pretty sure he doesn't -- that it's the middle of the day and not night time, when he still would have gone on this errand but it would have been a hell of a lot more dangerous.

There are plenty of drugs in the back. Dean wishes he knew more about them, because there are probably a dozen that would work that he has to pass over because he just doesn't _know_. It's not like he's going to start shoving them into Sam's mouth and hoping for the best; he has to find something he recognizes the name of. Penicillin, tetracycline, something. Finally he finds amoxicillin. The bottle says it's a couple of years expired, but he has to take a chance on it anyway. He takes the whole thing with him, shoving the bottle into the inside pocket of his jacket and closing his hand more tightly around the grip of his rifle as he steps back outside into the sunshine. Then he remembers and goes back to check the shelves, where he finds some juice in glass bottles that's probably okay. Not easy to carry, but it's worth it to make the effort.

"Sam?" he calls while he's still in the hallway, and Sam's voice, gravelly and weak, says, "Yeah," back at him.

"Okay, here. Take these." Dean helps Sam sit up with an arm around his shoulders and pressed two of the amoxicillin tablets into his hand along with another two ibuprofen to take the fever down, and Sam leans against him and swallows the pills obediently. "Nah, it's okay," Dean says, when Sam starts to pull away, and Sam sighs and leans in again, his bulk solid and heavy against Dean's side. Solid, heavy, and hot as hell; Dean finds himself brushing Sam's hair back off his forehead.

"Feel like shit," Sam says.

"I know," Dean says, and pats Sam's hair some more. "Just try to get comfortable."

"What about you?" Sam mutters.

"What do you mean, what about me?"

"You," Sam says. His voice is rough and low, and Dean can feel the warmth of Sam's breath seeping through his shirt. "You comfortable?"

Something in Dean's chest contracts almost painfully. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm comfortable. Don't you worry about me."

 

  


 

Sam sleeps all day, waking up every couple of hours to murmur a few complaints. Dean gets him to drink a little juice whenever he can, but by the time midnight rolls around, Sam's still hot and miserable.

"Just sleep," Dean whispers, and Sam shifts against him, an arm draping over Dean's chest. "You'll get better. I'm right here to take care of you."

It's weird, having someone to take care of, but it feels right, like Dean's been doing it his whole life. He doesn't care that the weight of Sam's head on his shoulder makes him sweat, or that Sam snores when he gets into certain positions, or that Sam's breath is getting more and more rank as the hours pass. He keeps monitoring Sam's temperature -- wishing he'd thought to look for a thermometer when he was at the drug store -- and feeding Sam pills, and drifts off to sleep despite himself near dawn.

When Dean wakes up, Sam is awake, too, his eyes glassy but open. He's studying Dean's face, watching him. Dean isn't sure how he feels about that.

"Hey," Dean says, resisting the urge to stretch because Sam is still using him as a pillow. "How're you feeling?"

"Like crap," Sam says. "Well. Less like crap than before. What day is it?"

"Does it matter? What, you worried about missing your favorite TV show?" Dean smiles and reaches out to tuck Sam's hair back behind his ear.

"Ha ha. I just meant -- how long have I been sick?"

"Not as long as it probably feels like. Here, take some more of these, since you're up." He does roll away from Sam to get the pills and some water, then rearranges the pillows so they can both lie down again once Sam has swallowed the drugs. Then, because he thinks he'd better answer Sam, he says, "About twenty-four hours, give or take."

"You're right. It does feel like longer." Sam clears his throat. "You been here the whole time?"

"Pretty much." There'd been that time Dean had had to take a piss, and another when he'd gone to grab something to eat, but he'd been back as quickly as possible both times. He hadn't wanted Sam to wake up and find himself alone. "You hungry?"

Sam shakes his head slightly. "God, no. Just want to sleep. You don't have to stay..."

"Ill stay." Dean thinks saying it will help Sam finish drifting off to sleep, which he does half a minute later. And Dean, sighing and rubbing the back of his neck, goes to get something to keep himself busy until Sam is better.

 

~ * ~ * ~

It's three days before Sam is well enough to get out of bed, and even then he's weak and shaky. But the fever is way down, and the cut on his arm looks better. His appetite is back, too, if the way he inhales everything Dean puts in front of him means anything. He spends another day in bed reading, occasionally interrupting whatever Dean's in the middle of to read him a couple of paragraphs aloud.

"What the hell _is_ that?" Dean asks finally, looking up.

"Ishmael," Sam says. "Daniel Quinn."

"The gorilla's telepathic?"

Sam shrugs and rolls over onto his back. "I like it."

And even though Dean couldn't care less, it's kind of cool that Sam _wants_ to read out loud to him. Even if the book is pretty strange and confusing, and Dean wonders what the hell Sam sees in it, the fact that Sam wants to, well, share it with him, is kind of nice. "It sucks," Dean says. "But if you're getting something out of it, whatever. Just don't expect it to mean anything to me."

"Don't worry," Sam says, and when Dean looks up at him again, Sam is grinning.

"What?"

"Nothing," Sam says.

"Don't give me 'nothing'," Dean argues. "You were smiling."

"I still am," Sam points out. "You're such an asshole."

"And that makes you smile?"

"I guess it does," Sam says, and is still smiling when he goes back to his book.

 

~ * ~ * ~

 

Once Sam's feeling better, they have lots of slow, low-effort sex. It's new to Dean; he can't remember a time when sex wasn't about racing toward the orgasm finish line. But with Sam, now, it's different. The room is dark even though it's just after noon, because the windows are all boarded over, so with the dim light from the propane lamp it feels like they've been in bed all day and into the night. And usually Dean's the one on top, but now he's flat on his back with Sam looming over him. Sam kisses with a leisurely intensity, exploring Dean's mouth before moving to his neck and then his collar bone. By the time Sam gets to Dean's dick, it feels like he's been hard forever.

"Tease," he grits out through his clenched jaw.

"Mm-hm." Sam agrees, and licks Dean's balls with the flat of his tongue.

Eventually, of course, Sam gives in and sucks Dean's cock until he comes with a shudder and a choked-off groan. God, it's so good to come with someone else instead of just his own hand that Dean tugs Sam up and kisses him with gratitude, clinging to him a little more than he probably should for a hell of a lot longer than he ought to.

"Hey," Sam says, big hand stroking along the back of Dean's shoulder. "Hey. You okay?"

Dean nods. "Yeah, sure. Why wouldn't I be?" But his voice is rough and he knows Sam's going to hear it, and he's not sure he can handle that. There's a whole conversation waiting around the corner that he's not ready for. "I gotta get a drink. You want anything?"

"No, I'm good. Dean --"

He doesn't wait to find out what Sam'll say next -- he snags his jeans off the floor on his way out of the room, and doesn't tug them on until he's halfway down the hallway. Once there, he leans against the wall and takes a couple of deep breaths. Sam has become everything to him, just like that, and the realization shakes him to the core. He's got no idea how any of this happened.

He drinks some water, taking his time, but he knows he can't avoid Sam, and God knows he hasn't gotten this far in life being a coward.

When he goes back to the room, Sam is sitting on the edge of the bed, still naked. There's something in his hands, and Dean's wallet is on the bed next to him. Sam looks up, guilt and confusion written all over his face. "You dropped your wallet," he says.

"Apparently," Dean says.

"First I wondered why you'd even _have_ a wallet," Sam says. "But then -- Dean, where did you get this picture?" Sam sounds like he's strangling on the words, and Dean has to move closer to see that Sam is holding the photo of his father that he's been carrying around all these years.

"What do you mean? I've always had it. Since I was a kid." Why is Sam so freaked out about this?

"Dean, this is John Winchester."

Dean takes the photo out of Sam's hand and turns it over to look at the back, where his father's name is written in his mother's handwriting. "Yeah, I know. Says so right here. Congratulations, you can read."

Sam rubs his mouth with the back of his hand and glances at Dean's face. "Why do you have a picture of him?"

"I don't know." Dean shrugs. "My mom said I deserved to know what he looked like, even if he was an asshole who bailed on us before I started kindergarten."

"He was your father," Sam says, flat, his face gone so fast through horrified to expressionless that Dean isn't sure the horrified was even there.

"Yes. Sam, what --"

"He was my father, too," Sam says, rubbing his mouth again but not looking at Dean this time.

Dean just stands there, dumbstruck. That's not even _possible_. How the fuck is that possible? "How -- how do we even know we're talking about the same guy, here?"

"Because I know what John Winchester looked like," Sam says. "He _raised_ me. I never would have made it this far without what he taught me. You think I wouldn't recognize my own father?" He leans forward and snatches the photo from Dean's fingers, waving it in the air. "We're _brothers_ , Dean."

"This is crazy!" Dean runs both hands through his hair and paces back and forth. "Maybe -- maybe the picture is wrong." But he knows it's not, and suddenly he remembers the baby picture his mother kept hidden, the lock of baby hair. He remembers overhearing little bits of conversation, his mother talking on the phone to someone about 'finding him', which he'd always assumed meant his dad, but maybe... "There was a picture of you," he says, and sits down next to Sam on the bed, all the strength gone out of him.

"Of me?"

"Yeah. My mom -- our mom -- kept it hidden, but I found it. I knew it wasn't me. You even had this fucked up hair." He reaches out and ruffles Sam's hair. "What the hell happened?"

Sam gets up and starts getting dressed. "How should I know? It's not like Dad was much of a talker. You kind of remind me of him, actually. He was taller, though."

"That's his car," Dean says, realizing that Sam might not even know that. "He left it when he took off, and even though we moved around a lot -- looking for you, probably -- Mom always brought it with us. I used to think she was saving it for me, you know, so I'd have something of his, but maybe she hoped he'd come back for it." God, he has so many questions, and there's no way he's ever going to get any answers. Not, he reminds himself, that anything's changed, because his life has always been like this.

Except he's never had a brother before.

"Sam. This is big."

Sam gives him an exasperated look as he buttons his shirt. "You think?"

"So what do we do now?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, we're family." It might be a word Dean's never said out loud before. "We've got to stick together."

"We are, aren't we?" Sam seems puzzled, like it never occurred to him that Dean figured he'd take off sooner or later.

Dean hesitates, then nods. "Yeah, sure."

"'Sure?'" Sam echoes him, frowning. "That's convincing. What, you were thinking you weren't going to stay?"

"Sam, I've never stayed _anywhere_. Even the place I was living when everything went to hell was just a rental." It makes sense in Dean's mind, but he can see Sam is upset. "It's nothing personal."

"Nothing _personal_? I thought --" Sam shrugs and looks away. "You know what? Never mind. It doesn't matter what I thought, does it. All that matters to you is what you want."

That's so unfair that Dean finds himself on his feet again. "Dude, _fuck you_. You think I wanted to risk my ass going after these antibiotics when you were running a fever so high you were practically hallucinating? No, I didn't. But I did it for _you_ , because I --" No, no way. He's not going to say it, and besides, things are different now. He can love his brother, but he can't be _in love_ with him. "You're right -- never mind. Let's just end this right here." And he walks out before Sam can stop him.

It's still a couple of hours until sunset, so Dean goes out to check on the Impala. He doesn't have another replacement tire, and a careful inspection of the flat reveals that it's got a gash in it big enough to shove his finger into. Finding a new spare tire that'll fit and is in one piece is likely to be a challenge, but he'll figure it out. Plus, it's not like he's going anywhere anytime soon. Not unless he can convince Sam to come with him...

He gets into the car and sits behind the wheel.

He doesn't want to think, but he can't help it. All this time, all these years, he had a brother and never knew it. It doesn't seem possible. His mother should have told him, should have explained. Why hadn't she? Why had she kept Sam a secret?

It's so fucked up that Dean feels stunned, and that's saying something considering that he's been wandering around the continent stunned for the past however many years.

Fingers tap unexpectedly at the passenger side window, and Dean flinches and reaches for the Beretta tucked under the seat before he sees it's Sam, who holds up both palms toward him and widens his eyes, then gestures at the door handle.

"Yeah, okay," Dean says grudgingly, and Sam gets in. Only a car this big, Dean thinks, would have enough room for Sam's freakishly long legs, which he probably inherited from their grandfather, who'd been pretty tall, too.

"Sorry," Sam says.

Dean shrugs.

Sam sits there, hands on his knees, for a couple of minutes, not saying anything. It's fine with Dean if they _never_ talk about this, because what the hell can they say? Nothing that'll change anything, that's what.

"Are you leaving?" Sam asks finally, his voice quiet and a little unsteady, and Dean turns in his seat to look at him.

"What?"

"Before, you said..." Sam swallows and bites his lip. "You said you were ending it."

Dean blinks. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I totally get that, since we've been, um, involved --"

" _Fucking_ ," Dean supplies helpfully, and Sam glares at him.

" _Involved_ ," Sam repeats, then goes on, "That this is, you know, kind of screwed up --"

" _Kind of_ screwed up?" Dean says. "Try 'massively, incredibly _fucked_ up.'"

"But I don't want you to go," Sam finishes.

"Sam," Dean says, trying to sound more patient than he feels, "I'm not going anywhere. Not without you."

Sam looks surprised, then relieved. "You're not?"

"No. Why the hell would you think something like that, anyway?" Dean's irritated, now, because Sam should know better.

"Because you said we should end this," Sam says. "I thought you meant... Well. It doesn't matter."

"I meant we should quit arguing, not -- _this_ is the part I wanted to avoid," Dean grumbles, putting both hands on the wheel and tightening them. "All this talking. Blah blah blah, let's discuss our _feelings_. Makes me want to puke just thinking about it."

After a few seconds, Sam laughs a little bit, uncertainly. "So you're okay with this as long as we don't talk about it?"

"Pretty much," Dean says, suddenly feeling more cheerful. "Dude, it's gonna get dark in about an hour. Any ideas where we can find a tire to fit this baby?" He pats the Impala's wheel with affection and gives Sam a hopeful look.

 

~ * ~ * ~

 

"I just don't see why we need a new tire if we're staying here," Sam says mid-afternoon the next day. He swings the tire iron he's holding back and forth, and Dean has to squint up at him from where he's crouching next to an old Plymouth Fury that has a couple of still-intact tires on it.

"Because sooner or later we might want -- or need -- to leave, and its not cool to drive around without a quality spare." Dean brushes at the dirt over the numbers printed on the rubber and scowls when he discovers it's not a match. He stands up and rubs his hands on his thighs. "What if there's, I don't know, an earthquake?"

"We're in Kansas," Sam points out.

"Fine, then, a tornado," Dean says, looking around.

"Then I don't think a car's going to do us much good," Sam says. "Its not a tank. What about over there? I think there's some kind of garage."

"Yeah, okay." The two of them head in that direction, neither of them mentioning the pile of bones next to the building they're passing. It's better that way, pretending you don't see stuff like that. Dean suspects that people who aren't capable of pretending that kind of thing, of fooling themselves, are the ones who didn't last long after things went to hell.

The garage looks like it's been well and thoroughly raided long ago. The dust is so thick on everything that it's a relief -- it means that no one's been in here for a long time, so it's about as safe as things get. "Back here," Sam says, and goes behind a counter and into the room beyond that.

There are a couple of dozen tires, most of them even on rims. Of course, the one Dean needs is at the bottom of a tall stack. Seems solid enough, though, and Dean's thankful for that. "Check the rest of 'em, too," he tells Sam. "Just in case there's another one. You never know."

"Okay." Sam's earlier mood, which had been less than stellar, seems to have mellowed now.

But they don't find any more tires that are the right size, so Dean rolls the one good one back to the Impala, jacks her up, and takes off the spare, swapping in the new wheel. "There you go, baby," he says fondly, letting the car drop back to the ground.

As they go back into the motel, Sam offers, "Dad used to tell me about the car, sometimes. He always meant to get another one like it, but..."

"But life ended up being a lot shorter than he'd planned?" Dean says. "Yeah -- I guess a lot of people experienced that little phenomenon, huh." He waits until they're inside to ask, "He never talked about me or Mom?"

"I never knew about you," Sam says, like an apology. "He only talked about Mom when he was drunk, and by that point he was usually crying and then puking, so... yeah. I never knew whether to hope he'd get drunk or hope he didn't."

Dean nods. "I get that." He does, because he'd wanted Mom to talk about Dad but then felt guilty when she did, because it was so obviously miserable for her. Of course, at the time he hadn't known about Sam, either.

"What do you want for dinner?" Sam asks, and Dean, grateful to be putting the conversation aside, chuckles and says, "Always thinking with your stomach, aren't you, Sam?" and leaps back just in time to avoid the backhanded smack Sam aims at him.

 

~ * ~ * ~

 

The next time it's Sam who wakes Dean up in the middle of the night. Sam's whimpering in his sleep, and it sounds so pitiful that Dean sits up in bed and kicks Sam's mattress. "Hey," he says. "Sammy. Wake up."

The room is dark, but not so dark that Dean can't see Sam twisting in the covers.

"Sam," he says again. "You're having a nightmare. Wake up, for fuck's sake, so I can go back to sleep."

Sam makes a sudden, freaky sound like he's choking, like something's got its hands around his throat and he can't breathe. It's a sound that sends a bolt of terror through Dean, even though he's right there and he _knows_ Sam's just having a nightmare -- he leaps from his bed, tripping and practically falling on top of Sam. Sam shouts and struggles, and in the resulting tangle of limbs manages to elbow Dean in the eye.

"Fuck!" Dean overbalances and falls to the floor, landing on his ass. "Sam!"

Everything goes quiet, then Sam says, "Dean?" in a soft voice.

"Yeah, you asshole, who did you think it was, the Staypuff Marshmallow Man?" Dean grumbles and gets to his feet, one hand rubbing his ass and the other clapped over his sore eye. "Jesus, I'm gonna have a hell of a shiner."

"I was dreaming," Sam says.

"No shit. Ow."

Apparently waking up enough to feel guilty, Sam says, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's just ten minutes ago I wasn't expecting to be awake, let alone getting an elbow to the eye."

"I can get you one of those ice packs," Sam offers.

"Nah, let's not waste it." Who knows if they'll be able to find any more once they run out, and with their current pattern of injuries, that'll probably be sooner rather than later. "You okay?"

"I'm not the one with a black eye." Sam sighs and turns over, facing Dean in the darkness, but he doesn't say anything for a long time, long enough that Dean thinks maybe he's fallen asleep again. Then, just as Dean's getting ready to turn over and try to go back to sleep himself, Sam says, "I was dreaming about Dad."

Dean grunts. He's not sure if he wants to hear more or not, but at least Sam will know he's listening.

"About how he died. I don't -- I wasn't there, and I should have been. I was supposed to meet him, and I was running late, and by the time I got there, he was already dead. And he looked -- I don't know, not like he should have been dead. There wasn't a mark on him. He wasn't -- he wasn't breathing."

Dean can hear the tears in Sam's voice, the way it's making him sound like he's talking through a throat thick with them. It makes Dean's own eyes prickle with sympathy, which pisses him off. He's supposed to feel sorry for a guy who walked out on him when he was just a little kid? A guy who left him and his mother to take care of themselves -- which they did just fine, no thanks to him -- not to mention a guy who took off with his baby brother, leaving his mom to spend the rest of her life looking for him? No way, nuh-uh. Dean is _not_ going to waste one second feeling sorry for that guy.

"I tried, for a long time. CPR, everything I could think of," Sam goes on, quiet in the dark. "But I couldn't bring him back."

Dean doesn't say anything.

"Dean?" Sam whispers finally. "Are you awake?"

Still nothing, even though it makes him feel bad for leaving Sam on his own in this, and Sam sighs and eventually turns over and goes back to sleep. Dean can hear him breathing, soft and even, regular.

By morning, still staring at the ceiling with his hands crossed over his chest, Dean is jealous of Sam's ability to sleep like he doesn't have a care in the world, even if it's just an illusion.

 

~ * ~ * ~

 

Not getting enough sleep puts Dean in a foul mood, and he spends the next day snapping at Sam until Sam, exasperated, says, " _Dude_ , what the hell is your problem?"

"Well," Dean says, "Some asshole woke me up in the middle of the night."

Sam actually has the balls to look hurt. "I said I was sorry."

"It's not your fault," Dean says, finding himself more swayed by Sam's kicked-puppy look than he would have guessed. "Sleep deprivation makes me a jerk. Just ignore me."

He digs around in the basement of the motel, trying to come up with something interesting. He's so _bored_. The basement is full of dust and cobwebs, cardboard boxes, broken furniture. Dark as fuck, too, but that doesn't creep him out anymore, even though it probably should. From behind a bunch of shit under the stairs, he unearths an ancient bottle of liquor. It's coated with a layer of dust, and underneath that what's probably a layer of grease, and that's where Dean stops thinking and starts drinking. A swipe of his sleeve over the top of the bottle and a long, slow set of swallows that set his stomach burning creates a future where he doesn't have to stress about the past, and twenty minutes and a third of the bottle in he realizes he doesn't have to be sitting in this filthy fieldstone basement and heads for the stairs, only weaving a little bit on his feet.

"Look what I found," he says when he finds Sam, and holds up the bottle.

"Dude," Sam says. "You're gonna get salmonella or something drinking that."

Dean eyes the bottle suspiciously, then shakes his head. "Only if I was licking the outside. What's inside'll kill any germs. Want some?" He rocks the bottle back and forth appealingly.

"I'm still on antibiotics," Sam reminds him. He's sitting in a chair against the wall, a book in his lap. "It'd probably make me puke."

"Baby." Dean takes another healthy swig and throws himself down on the bed closest to the door.

"Where'd you get that, anyway?"

"Basement. There's a ton of shit down there. Hopefully more liquor, too." He drinks some more, spills a little down the corner of his mouth, and coughs as some of what he tried to swallow goes down his windpipe.

"Yeah, because you getting _more_ drunk is such a great idea." Sam sticks one of the scraps of paper he uses as bookmarks between the pages of his book and sets it on the floor beside him.

Dean drinks some more, rolls over onto his side so he's facing Sam, and blinks enticingly at him. "Sam."

"Yeah, Dean?" Sam sounds amused.

"Sam."

"Uh-huh."

"Sammmmmyyy." Dean has a goofy grin on his face, he can feel it. He sets the bottle down on the bedside table. "C'mon over here."

"What for?"

"'Cause I wanna kiss you."

Sam's expression falters. "Dean..."

"Don't say it."

"Don't say what?" Sam asks.

"Whatever it is you're thinking. All those fucking excuses. I don't wanna hear 'em." The weird thing is, Dean _does_ want to know what Sam's thinking, but only if it's what he wants him to be thinking, which probably _isn't_ what he's thinking because Dean's drunk and wants to hear that Sam thinks he's hot as hell.

"I'm not going to kiss you," Sam says patiently, and Dean sighs and rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.

Finally, Dean says, "He was an asshole."

"Who?"

"Our dad."

There's quiet, then Sam says, "No, he wasn't."

"Easy for you to say. You weren't the one he left behind." Dean regrets it as soon as the words are past his lips -- he has a tendency to open up when he's drunk, and he's going to be sorry about it tomorrow.

"Dean... there's got to be stuff we dont know about. He wouldn't have run out on you and Mom unless there was a good reason for it." Sam sounds like he's pitying Dean, which means screw tomorrow, Dean's already sorry.

"Shut your pie hole," he says. "You don't know what you're talking about. Don't make excuses for him, Sam. There's no excuse for leaving your wife and kid like that, or for taking a baby away from its mother." He's sitting up now, with the bottle in his hand again. "So don't you try to pretend it's okay, like he couldn't help it. He _left us_."

"I know," Sam says, his voice still gentle.

"He left us, Sammy." Dean's breath hitches, his chest aching with it. "He left me, and he took you. What the hell does that mean?"

Sam gets up and comes over to him then, but Dean doesn't want him anymore because he knows it's just Sam feeling sorry for him.

"Get the fuck away from me," Dean says, pointing at him. "Don't you -- don't you feel sorry for me, Sam. Don't you do that." His eyes are prickling with tears, and he blinks furiously to clear them.

"Dean," Sam says, and sits on the bed, acting like he doesn't feel it when Dean hits him. "Shut up. Hey. Look at me. No, _look at me_." He holds Dean's face between his hands. "You think I'm not effed up over the fact that I had to grow up without you and mom? Do you seriously think you're the only one hurting here?" Sam's eyes are bright, and his lower lip is quivering. "You aren't alone in this, Dean. We're in this together, whether you like it or not."

Dean's throat is clenched tight, like someone's got a hand wrapped around it, but he'll be damned if he's going to cry. He wants to pull away from Sam, and he wants to push in closer. It's confusing as hell, and tomorrow, he decides, he'll blame it on being drunk, but for now... for now, he leans in and kisses Sam, kisses Sam and waits to be pushed away. But Sam slides a hand down along Dean's spine and kisses him back, and the next thing Dean knows they're both naked and Sam's bulk is above him.

"You're drunk," Sam tells him.

"Yeah," Dean says. "What's your excuse?"

"I don't need one," Sam says, and pushes his cock into Dean so slowly Dean can just about feel his eyes rolling up into his head. "I just -- I want to --"

Dean groans, feels the big muscles in his thighs tremble. "Fuck. Sam."

"Yeah." Sam's jaw is clenched with the effort of keeping still. "Change your mind?"

"What?" Dean aches with wanting and it must be slowing him down because he has _no idea_ what Sam is talking about.

"D'you still want me to fuck you?" Sam's eyes seem overly bright, glittering in the low light of the room.

"What, you just want me to say it? Yeah, okay?" Dean's throat is impossibly thick with some emotion he can't name. "Yeah, I want you to fuck me."

"Okay," Sam says, with a quick little nod of his head.

They go at it for a long time, slow, until they're both slick with sweat and Dean's ass burns. It's weird, how something can hurt and feel good, but this really does. It's fire and the grit of sand underneath your eyelids, clenched teeth and cramped muscles, and all of it worth it because he knows there'll be a mind-blowing orgasm at the end.

"'m losin' it here," Sam mutters, moving just a little bit faster.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Do it, Sammy. Lose it..." He comes before Sam does, though, tilting his chin toward the ceiling and groaning when Sam bites the sensitive spot under his ear. Sam is quiet when he comes, jerking his hips so his dick drives into Dean in sharp jabs. When he finally pulls away and lies down next to Dean, he's still quiet, and Dean knows he has to say what he's been thinking before he loses his nerve. "I don't think I can stay here."

Sam doesn't respond at first. Then, voice soft, he says, "What are you talking about?"

Dean keeps his own voice soft, too. "You know what I'm talking about."

"You're talking about leaving." Sam stands up and starts pulling on his clothes, his movements jerky. "What happened to us staying together?"

Dean swings his feet down onto the floor, wishing he could explain this in a way that would help Sam understand. "Hey, come on. I'm not -- I'm not _built_ for this. Any of it." When it comes right down to it, he's talking about a hell of lot more than putting down roots at a shitty motel. "Not like you."

"Do you even hear yourself?" Sam is staring at him incredulously. "God, you're such an asshole."

"An asshole you just _fucked_ ," Dean says.

"You don't even know what a jerk you are!" Sam's fists are clenched. "You're mad at Dad for leaving you, so you're gonna leave me? In what kind of screwed up world does that even make sense?"

Dean swallows and tightens his jaw, then says, "I don't know. In this one, I guess."

Sam stares at him for a really long time. "Yeah," he says finally. "Yeah, you're right. I don't know why I --" He sighs heavily and turns away. "Whatever. Don't let the door hit you on the way out."

 

~ * ~ * ~

 

Dean drives south. Theres no real reason for it, just the faint idea that somewhere near the ocean would be good. A change, thats what he needs. To dig his toes into hot sand at the waters edge, get good and sunburned until the tips of his ears peel. Maybe hook up with some bikini-wearing blonde, drink liquor straight from a bottle they hand back and forth.

Hours turn into days. Dean is on auto-pilot, moving resolutely. He stops for gas when he needs it, finds garages to hole up in at night when hes too tired to keep his eyes open. Theres a kind of tired no caffeine can touch, and hes not stupid enough to chance falling asleep at the wheel.

Many times, he finds himself opening his mouth to say something to Sam before remembering that Sam isnt there. It makes him feel like a tool, and that pisses him off. Thats okay. He knows how to be angry -- hes got a lot of practice, and it gives him something to keep his mind busy during the long hours behind the wheel. He can only spend so much time imagining sunbathing on the beach.

"This sucks, Sammy", he says out loud finally. He doesn't know what the hell he's doing. Why is he driving away from the one person he actually gives a shit about?

Dean pulls over to the side of the road, in behind an old pick-up truck with four flat tires. He's got to think. For real. He knows what it's like to miss Mom; it's an ache that fades a little bit more each year but one he never expects to go away. Missing Sam, that's new, and Dean is surprised to realize that it hurts more. Sam crawled in under his skin somehow, and leaving him behind feels wrong.

"Damn it!" Dean slams his hand against the wheel. Fuck! Okay, add that to his list of bad ideas. Now his hand hurts, too.

He hates being wrong. He hates knowing that he ran because -- let's face it -- he was scared. Scared to admit that his feelings for Sam go deep, scared to admit that he doesn't want to be alone anymore.

Well, he's not going to let himself keep running.

Resolute now, Dean puts the Impala back into gear and spins the wheel. He isn't going to waste more time, not another minute. His bumper is just clearing the back of the pick-up when he notices the unevenness of the road, and then he realizes something's wrong. He puts the car in park again and gets out.

"Seriously?" he asks the sky, because he sure as hell isn't asking God. "A flat? Now?" He's so focused on the front flat that it takes him another half a minute to discover the matching one in back, and then when he walks around to the other side he finds that his car matches the abandoned pick-up. " _Four_? You've got to be kidding me."

There are two cans of Fix-a-flat in the trunk, but they're useless because closer inspection shows that the tires aren't just punctured, they're shredded, poked all full of holes. He gives it a shot anyway, emptying one of the cans into the front right tire.

"Fuck," he mutters, watching the air run back out as fast as it went in. Maybe faster. "Fuck me."

The road is littered with what looks like the contents of a hardware stores worth of wood screws, and its going to be dark within a few hours. Much as he hates to admit it, Dean knows he's got to leave the Impala behind and find himself somewhere to spend the night. In the morning, he'll worry about how he's going to make his way back to Sam.

It takes longer than it should to figure out what he can take with him and what he can live without, and then he has to leave an extra gun behind because it's just too damn heavy. It'd be one thing if he only had to walk a few miles, but with no one to watch his back he doesn't want to be too weighted down.

He prefers to stay away from the center of town, not wanting to chance getting surrounded if the place is overrun, so when he spots a warehouse that doesn't look like its seen any attention in a long time. Dean knows to be careful, though. He creeps his way closer, keeping his distance and listening for all hes worth for any sounds from inside. The sun is just above the horizon and hed rather get inside the building before its dark enough for him to need his flashlight to see. The beam of a flashlight will draw attention, and that's the last thing he wants.

The door on the wall facing him is metal and looks like something the size of the Incredible Hulk took a couple of swings at it. It's rusted, so hopefully that's a sign that the damage happened a long time ago. Dean slips inside without touching the door and pauses, giving his eyes a chance to adjust to the darkness. He can't hear anything significant -- maybe the skitter of tiny feet, rats or mice, but he doesn't worry about stuff like that.

It was some kind of factory, once upon a time. Dean rummages in his pack for his flashlight and turns it on, keeping the beam low. There are hallways and rooms and a hell of a lot of cobwebs, but if he's lucky he'll find a space he can barricade himself in so he can get some sleep.

He walks the length of one long wall, flashlight in one hand and a knife in the other. In the corner it looks like there might be some kind of office, and the door is both intact and slightly ajar. It could be a good space to hole up. He's two-thirds of the way there when he hears something -- what it is, he doesn't know -- and before he can finish turning his head something slams into him then pins him to the wall. It knocks the wind out of him and the flashlight from his hand.

Dean can't get more than a glance at the monster's face as it grabs his wrist and smacks his hand against the wall, just enough to learn that it's something he's never seen before, something with gray skin and dark tribal tattoos. He tries to hold onto the knife but his fingers have gone numb; he can hear the clatter as the handle hits the floor, then the blade. He's listening so he'll know where it ends up, in case he gets free.

The monster is a hell of a lot stronger than it looks, and his struggling is useless against it, but he keeps trying, even when it lifts its hand and starts to do something freaky that involves a blue glow.

Dean redoubles his efforts as the glow gets bright enough to be blinding, until his vision blurs and the radiance burns the world away.

 

~ * ~ * ~

 

"Five more minutes," he groans, pulling the pillow over his head.

"Two," his mother says, like it's a conversation they've had a thousand times, and Dean sits bolt upright in bed and stares at her.

She looks just like he remembers, blonde hair, smile lines around her eyes. He can't take his gaze off her, and finds himself standing up next to the bed but unable to go any closer.

"Dean?" She frowns.

It can't be her, it's impossible. She's been dead for years.

"What --" God, his voice is shot, rough with emotion. He has to swallow some of it back before he can try again. "When I was a kid, what did you always tell me when you put me to bed?"

"I don't understand."

"Just answer the question." He needs to hear the answer, even though he thinks if it's the wrong one his heart might break.

"I... I told you angels are watching over you."

Dean hates that he's put this worried look on her face, and he goes and puts his arms around her without saying anything else. He hugs her tight, tight, _tight_ and she lets him, not pulling away even though the hug lasts way longer than a normal one would.

"Honey, you're scaring me," she says finally, and Dean forces himself to let her go. She studies his face and strokes his hair. "Did you have a bad dream?"

"Kind of. Yeah, I guess." She even smells like he remembers, like the shampoo she used to use, the one with the little yellow flowers on the label. _This_ has to be the dream, right? Just because monsters are real, that doesn't mean people can magically come back from the dead.

"Come have some breakfast before you go to work."

Dean pulls on some clothes that he doesn't recognize -- they fit like a second skin, though, jeans soft and a little bit threadbare -- and goes out to the kitchen. He knows the house, all right, one he remembers from when he was little, just him and Mom. Some of the furniture is new.

"Do you want some --" Mary turns to glance at him, coffee pot in her hand, and stops. "You can't go to work like that. Are you okay?"

He doesn't know if the question is in reference to his clothes or the expression on his face when he sees an older but still immediately recognizable John Winchester leaning against the counter next to the refrigerator.

"You okay, son?" John asks. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Dean laughs, but in shock instead of amusement. "Yeah," he says. "I kind of feel that way." He's torn -- part of him wants to go over and punch the man right in the jaw, maybe more than once, for abandoning them. Except, if John is here, he didn't leave them, did he? Jesus, what the fuck is going on?

"Dean?" His dad sets down his coffee mug. "Maybe you should go back to bed. You might be coming down with something."

"Yeah. Maybe I will." Dean tells himself he just needs a few minutes to figure this out. There are too many things he wants, and most of them would make him seem even crazier than he's already acting. He wants to be five years old again so his mother can wrap him up in her arms and hug him and tell him everything is okay.

He wants to ask about Sam -- where is he? -- but he's scared what the answer might be.

Instead, he goes back to bed and stays there, listening to the sounds of his parents getting ready for their day with the covers pulled up to his chin. He's like a little kid afraid of the monster under the bed, not wanting to let a finger or toe out from under the blankets. His mom knocks on his door twenty minutes later, creaking it open.

"Honey, are you okay?" The concern in her voice brings tears to Deans eyes, but the shade is pulled down so the room is dark enough to hide them.

"Yeah. 'm gonna sleep for another hour then get my ass to work." How the hell he'll manage that is a mystery, since he has no idea where he works and it sounded from his mom's reaction to the jeans and T-shirt he's wearing that it requires something different. It better not be a fast food uniform.

"Okay," she says doubtfully. "You'd better call to let them know you're going to be late."

"I will."

When he hears the front door close a second time, Dean gets up and turns on the lights. A thorough search of the room reveals a shocker -- a whole bunch of really nice suits, dress shirts and ties hung up in the closet. Half a dozen pairs of dark, well cared for shoes lined up on the floor. On the back of the closet door a tie rack keeps a row of ties neat and tidy. They're nice enough, Dean supposes.

The wallet on top of the bureau is on the new side and there's almost three hundred dollars cash in it, along with credit cards that have his name stamped on them. He can understand a dream -- because this has to be a fucking dream -- in which his parents are still alive and together, but why the fuck is he dreaming about a life where he has the kind of job that requires suits and ties?

Although thinking about it, making the kind of money a job like that would result in sounds pretty damned good...

He spends half an hour searching the rest of the house trying to learn as much as he can. The master bedroom has a lacy negligee hooked over the bed post, and he shivers at the image of his mother wearing it that flashes through his mind. "Dad, I might have liked you better when you were dead," he mutters.

Tucked away into the back of the bottom drawer in his dad's bureau is a book, like a scrapbook. A journal. It doesn't have any actual photos in it, just hand drawn ones, most of them sketched in what looks like a hurried, untrained hand. Probably his dad's. Dean isn't crazy about the realization that he can't recognize his own fathers handwriting.

The book is full of monsters, except John Winchester doesn't call them that. They all have real names, like shapeshifters, wendigo, zombies. "Thought you guys were just in movies," Dean says, turning another page. Vampires? No way.

He flips through a few more pages and discovers a place where three are ripped out. Not carefully, but roughly, like the person who tore them out was pissed off. Dean rubs a finger along the uneven edges that were left behind and wonders what was written on them. For the most part, everything in the journal seems the same, so why would John decide these pages in particular should be trashed?

The phone starts ringing. Dean ignores it at first, but it keeps going. He tucks the journal under his arm and goes to find the phone; it's in the living room. Answering it feels like picking up a stranger's. "Hello?"

"Dean? Where the hell are you?" It's a guy and he sounds pissed.

"Um. I'm at home?" Usually he's so good at off-the-cuff conversations, but right now he's out of his element in more ways than one and he's just not thinking on his feet.

" _Why are you at home_? You're supposed to be _here_. Adler's _freaking out_."

Dean frowns. "Right, sorry. Uh... where is that, exactly?"

"At the _office_. Are you drunk?"

"No. I, uh, I'm sick." He tries to kick-start his brain. "I got some kind of bug. Been up half the night puking."

The guy on the other end of the line sighs. "Okay, okay. You should have called, but I'll -- I'll try to get things straightened out. But you'd better call him in the next hour or I'm pretty sure he's going to fire your ass. You know how he likes to call the shots."

"Yeah. Right. Thanks, man." Dean hopes he sounds grateful because all he feels is confused. "I will. I'll, uh, I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Okay. I hope you still have a job when you do." The guy hangs up and Dean sets the phone down.

This is so screwed up. Is he in some kind of alternate universe where things are different? He can't be dead, because this definitely isn't heaven even if his parents are both alive. Dean opens the journal again and flips through it, waiting for something to catch his eye, but nothing does.

Suddenly, he snaps the book closed and goes back to his parent's room. He kneels down on the floor and jerks the bottom drawer open, rifling in the back of it. He's not sure why, he just has this _feeling_ , and when his fingertips find paper he grabs it and pulls it out, triumphant.

It's the missing pages from the journal, folded in half. No idea how he knew they were there, but he did. He licks his lips and unfolds them.

In short, angry scrawls, John Winchester describes Sams death.

As soon as the words sink in, Dean stops reading. He doesn't want to know this, he _cant_ know this. Sam can't be dead, he just can't. There's no way this is okay, acceptable, believable, real. Dean is numb and shaking and he lets the pages drop to the floor, then forces himself to pick them up again.

There was a cell phone in his room next to his wallet. Dean goes to get it, fingers shaking as he looks for his fathers number and pushes the button.

"Dean?" John answers the phone and the sound of his voice takes whatever remaining strength Dean has.

He sinks down onto the bed and says hoarsely, "Tell me about Sam."

There's a pause so long that he actually takes the phone away from his head to see if he lost the connection, but the timer is still counting.

"What do you want to know?" John asks. He sounds wrecked, which is pretty much how Dean feels.

"Everything. Anything you can tell me."

"Dean... why now? Your brother's been dead for a long time." The wide-open space Dean had been able to hear around his dad closes in, like he's moved to a small room. Probably wants privacy. "You were just a kid."

"So you thought I'd just forget about him?"

John sighs. "Of course not. But he doesn't say anything else."

"I found your journal," Dean says, wishing he didn't have to.

"You -- Dean." There's disappointment, anger, frustration. All the things Dean feels about John, actually.

"And the pages about Sam."

"Christ," John says quietly. "Look, give me half an hour to finish up some stuff here and I'll come home. We can talk."

This is all getting way more intense than Dean had bargained for. What he really wants to do is get in his car and take a long drive, but a glance out at the driveway already showed him the Impala isn't there. Instead, there's a shiny new Mustang. Nice enough, but not his baby. "Yeah, okay. Sure."

"Don't go through any more of my stuff," John says, and hangs up.

Dean sits there on the bed looking at his cell phone. It's full of names and numbers he doesn't recognize, and none of them are Sam's. This is a shitty alternate universe. Sure, it doesn't seem like the world went to hell in the space of a couple of hours, and that's huge, but if someone had asked Dean if he'd trade Sam for having his parents back, the answer would have been fuck no.

By the time John gets home, Dean is in the kitchen having breakfast. What, he's not supposed to eat? He's just about inhaling his second bowl of cereal when he hears the front door open, and a minute later John comes into the kitchen and looks at him. "Good to see your appetite hasn't been affected," John says dryly, and Dean gestures at the chair across from him.

"Want some?"

"I'll pass." John sits and reaches for his journal, sliding it closer. "Should I ask why you were in my dresser?"

Dean knows he could lie, say he was looking for something else, but he's had a little bit of time to think about it and decided it's better to be honest. "Something happened. I woke up and I was here, but... whoever was here yesterday, it wasn't me."

John looks confused. "I'm not sure what you're getting at."

"Yeah, neither am I." Dean sets down his spoon, watching the last pieces of cereal floating in the milk. "I was trying to figure out what's happening. Looking for clues, or whatever. Yesterday... I was somewhere else, okay? Where I was supposed to be." He hesitates, then adds, "Sam was there. But you and mom were both dead."

"How?" John asks, leaning forward and looking at him intently. "How did we die?"

That isn't one of the questions Dean was anticipating. "Um. I dont know about you. There was some kind of accident, I wasn't there. Sam said he did CPR but he couldnt..." He shakes his head. "Mom was killed by something, like in your book. Im not sure what it was."

"Recent?" John gets up and takes Dean's bowl and spoon, moving over and putting them in the dishwasher. Dean doesn't really know the man, but suspects he's distracting himself from being emotional over the thought of Mary's death. Not that Dean blames him.

"No. Years back. It's different there. Almost everybody's dead, the world is overrun with monsters." He lets himself feel a little of the anger that's been under the surface of his skin all this time, using it so he can say what he needs to without feeling bad for the man standing at the sink. "You took Sam and left when I was just a kid. Left me and mom. Me finding Sam again, that was just the world's freakiest coincidence."

John turns around; his face is white under his tan. "I took Sam? When he was a baby?"

"Yeah. I barely remembered either of you from then."

"But he's alive?" John sounds sick and thrilled at the same time, and Dean finds himself wanting to reassure him.

"Yeah, he's fine. Well, he was, last time I saw him." Strangely, Dean is having a hard time remembering exactly when that was, or what hed done right before hed woken up here.

John comes back to the table and sits down again. "I thought about doing that," he admits, looking at his hands instead of at Dean. "Taking Sam. I knew it wasn't safe for him here. I thought I could protect him. But how could I take him away from your mother? So I stayed, and Sam paid the price." When he looks up, his eyes are haunted. "I've regretted that decision ever since."

Dean swallows. "You can't take it back."

"I know." John smiles, but it's not a happy smile. "Good to know there's a place where I didn't make the same mistake, at least." He's quiet again, then asks, "He's okay?"

"He's good," Dean says. "Smart. He's okay, I swear. Once I figure out how to get back there, I'll keep an eye on him. Make sure he stays that way. What about -- the other me? Am I -- is he happy?"

"I think so. Your girlfriend's a looker." John grins for real this time. When he smiles, the edges of his eyes crinkle up. "You've been talking about buying her a ring."

"Me? No way." Dean is stunned that a world he would have guessed would be so perfect -- his parents still alive, good job, money, girlfriend, everything normal -- could turn out to be so bizarre. "What about you and Mom? Are you happy?"

"Reasonably," John says. "I mean, yeah. But it's hard, losing a son like we did. I blame myself, your mom blames herself... its complicated."

Dean is surprised to realize that he's glad he's had this chance to talk to his dad. It's good to find out the guy's not as much of an asshole as he'd always imagined. And to know he took Sam to keep him safe. If he hadn't, Sam wouldn't have still been there for Dean to find, and that's a hell of a thing to have to think about.

"You okay?" John asks, and Dean nods.

"Taking it all in." He sighs and sits back in his chair. "What about Mom? Do we -- tell her about this? Any of it?"

"I don't know," John says. "She was the one who wanted out of this in the first place. Uh, the monster hunting." He shoves at the journal. "Maybe she'd be happier not knowing."

"Maybe." It's stupid, but part of Dean wants her to hug him and know she's hugging _him_ , not some other version of him. "What if --"

"Wait," John says, standing up so fast that his chair tips over and clatters to the floor. Dean finds himself on his feet, too. The light coming in from outside is a freaky, blue glow, and it's getting brighter.

"What the hell is that?" he asks, and the light sears through him like a bolt of lightning, blotting out the world.

 

 

~ * ~ * ~

 

Dean opens his eyes with a gasp. He feels like hes been drained of every bit of energy he ever had, like the air doesn't have enough oxygen in it.

"Dean," Sam says, and Dean's eyes focus on Sams face inches from his own. "Oh, thank God. When you wouldn't wake up, I thought --" He swallows. "I thought I lost you."

"You almost did." Dean's throat is so dry he can barely talk.

"Oh, God." Sam glances around. A flashlight's beam from somewhere on the floor is the only light in the room. "Let's get you down." Sam starts to saw at the rope that's biting into Dean's wrists, and behind him Dean sees two glowing blue eyes swim out of the darkness.

"Sam!" He tries to shout but it comes out more like a croak. It's enough of a warning, though. Sam spins around, knife in hand, and starts to wrestle with the monster. It's too dark for Dean to see whats happening. He struggles against the half cut ropes, straining until they tear into his skin. The rope finally gives up and Dean says a silent prayer when he spots the glint of his knife in the beam of the flashlight.

He stabs the monster in the back of the neck, hoping it isn't one of those things that won't go down until you've stabbed it a hundred times. It stiffens and goes to the floor so fast that Dean goes with it, getting the wind knocked out of him in the process.

"Dean!" Sam drags him to his feet and manhandles him to the doorway. It feels like Dean hasn't breathed fresh air in weeks, and he inhales all the way to his toes and holds it, forgets to exhale until Sam shakes him. "Come on," Sam says. "We've got to get out of here."

There's a beat up Jeep parked outside, still running. "Wasting gas," Dean mutters as Sam leans him up against the side of it and sweeps an armful of stuff that was on the passenger seat off onto the ground. Water splashes, small bones bounce on sun-bleached concrete. The sun is blinding.

"Shut up," Sam says, shoving him into the Jeep and shutting the door. There's a handful of granola bars on the dashboard, along with some empty wrappers, but Dean is more focused on a bottle of water sticking out of the glove compartment. He hadn't realized how thirsty he is until he sees it, and Sam takes it from his shaking hands and twists off the cap, helping him hold it up so he can take a few long, desperate gulps. "Easy. Enough."

It isn't enough, not even close, but Dean knows Sam is right so he leans his head against the chipped window glass and just concentrates on breathing as Sam puts the car in gear and starts driving.

"Are you hurt?" Sam asks. His voice is tight and stressed out; it makes Dean want to apologize even though he won't. "I didn't see anything, but --"

"I'm okay." Dean's voice sounds like shit even to his own ears. His eyes come into focus on the space between the seats, where a beat-up black journal is wedged. Huh. "How long's it been?"

"Six days, since you left. Uh. Maybe seven. Do you know how long you were in that warehouse?" Sam is alternating between looking at the road and glancing at Dean worriedly.

It's hard to force his brain to think. "Uh. I don't know." It had been three days gone when he turned around, another day walking before the warehouse. "Three, four days, maybe." He manages to drink some more water and only spills a little. His clothes are so filthy with stuff he doesn't want to think about that if he had any more strength he'd strip out of them and chuck them out the window. "How did you find me?"

"Long story," Sam says, eyes suddenly glued to the road. There's a strip of grungy gauze wrapped around his wrist. "I'll tell you later, okay? Once we get back. Then, if you want to leave again --"

"I don't," Dean says. "Never should have left in the first place."

Sam's shoulders relax. Just a little bit, but enough for Dean to see. He blanks out then, eyes unfocused staring out the side window because he has to lean his head against the glass if he's going to stay upright. The road and the trees blur. Sam has to slow down to get through a bunch of broken down cars abandoned across the highway, and that's a blur, too. Every once in a while Sam says his name and Dean manages a grunt in reply.

"Dean."

" _Dean_."

A rough hand shakes his shoulder.

"Leave me alone," Dean grumbles. "Sleepin'."

They only stop once so Sam can sleep. Dean is only peripherally aware of it, too drained to give a shit if they get attacked and killed in this stupid Jeep. He's always hated Jeeps -- there's something pretentious about them, like they're some kind of precursor to rich people in their SUVs. But he can die in a Jeep if he has to. At least there'd be some weird kind of justice to it.

" _Dean_." Sam whacks him on the shoulder and Dean winces.

"What the fuck, dude?" he says. "Why do you have to keep waking me up?" His words slur.

"Drink this." Sam shoves a bottle of water into his hands and Dean drinks because it's easier to do that than to argue. "And eat something. I don't care what."

He falls asleep again before he can.

At some point, Dean wakes up in a bed. He thinks he has to be dreaming -- they're really in a fucking Jeep driving on a road that will never end. Maybe that's what Hell is. "Sam?"

"Shh." Sam is behind him, not touching, but moves closer. "I'm right here."

"Where are we?"

"Home," Sam says. Dean rolls over and Sam sits up, reaching for a glass of water. "Drink some of this, okay?"

"I'm gonna float away," Dean complains. It's not true -- he's still dehydrated, his mouth dry, and he's pretty sure he hasn't taken a piss in a couple of days despite the water Sam's been pushing on him. He hitches himself onto one elbow, silently cursing how weak he feels, and takes the glass, drains it.

"I'm going to get you something to eat." Sam gets up. He's wearing sweatpants that are too short, his chest bare, and Dean doesn't want him to go, not even as far as the makeshift kitchen. But he knows he won't regain his strength unless he gets some calories into him, so he doesn't say anything.

He lies there in bed listening to Sam moving around. He has to strain his ears to do it part of the time, but it's not like he has anything else to do. It's reassuring to know that Sam is only a few rooms away, that there are only a few walls between them. Even then, by the time Sam comes back with a bowl of canned beef stew and a plastic sleeve of crackers, Dean's hands are shaking like a drug addict jonesing for a fix.

It's Sam he's addicted to, though. And the world is too fucked up for Dean to care whether it's right or wrong or screwed up or a sign of psychological damage.

"Come here," he says.

Sam sets the food down and frowns, sits down on the edge of the mattress.

"No, here." Dean tugs at him until Sam gets the hint and lies down with him again. Dean gets an arm around him and leans in, inhales the scent of Sam's skin. Licks Sam's shoulder.

"Dean?"

"I know," Dean says. "I just -- it's stupid, but I wanted to make sure you were really here. I didn't want to still be dreaming or whatever that was."

"What happened?"

Dean shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. I dont know. What I do want to know is how you found me."

Sam's big hand cradles the back of Dean's skull. Dean closes his eyes. "There's a spell for finding someone. Like, magical radar." He pulls back and rubs his nose against Dean's, kisses him. Dean knows his mouth must taste like shit but hes too grateful to care. "I knew something was wrong. I saw it. I don't know how, I can't explain it, it was like -- a movie, but not really. Crazy flashes. I put together the stuff for the spell and I went to find you. That's all."

"Thanks," Dean whispers. "Thanks, Sam."

Sam's smile is sweet. It makes him look younger, like he must have looked as a kid. It's another item on the list of reasons for Dean to be pissed off at their father -- John robbed him of the chance to be Sam's big brother when they were growing up. Things could have been different.

That thought makes Dean sit bolt upright in bed. Shit. That's what that was. Whatever that monster had been, it had let him see how his life could have been different. A normal world, a world he might have wished for if hed known he was making a wish.

Sam is sitting up, too, looking worried. "Dean?"

He shakes his head. There's no way he's telling Sam what it was like -- it's too fucked up, and it'll just make Sam feel bad. There's been a lifetime of feeling bad for both of them already. No sense in making it worse. They have enough on their plates and always will. In this case, Dean is ready to make the sacrifice of keeping his wish-world secret if it means one less thing for Sam to stress about. "Nothing," Dean says, and lies back down. "C'mere, I'm cold." He's not, but it isn't the first lie he's told Sam and it won't be the last.

"What aren't you telling me?" Sam complains, but tugs Dean closer.

Dean makes a muffled, non-committal sound against Sam's shoulder. There's a whole list, and Sam will probably worm some of it out of him sooner or later. He just has to pretend he doesn't know what Dad's journal is when Sam brings it out again.

At least he knows the pages about Sam dying won't exist in this world.

Sam hesitates, then whispers, "Are you -- are you gonna leave again?"

Dean holds him tightly. "Not unless you come with me."

 

~ * ~ * ~

 

He wakes again with Sam sleeping behind him, big solid body curled around Dean and holding him like even in his sleep Sam is worried about him disappearing. They're both naked; Dean doesn't remember taking off his clothes. Sam's dick is half hard against the back of Dean's thigh. It feels good.

Experimentally, Dean shifts a little bit, and Sam murmurs and tightens his arm around Dean's waist. Sam's hips push forward, his cock rubbing on Dean's ass. Sam's lips find the back of Dean's neck and kiss him, and Dean feels his own cock stir.

"Dean." Sam's voice is a whisper.

"Yeah," Dean says gruffly. "I'm not going anywhere, Sammy."

Sam groans and shifts on the bed until his cock head is pushing against Dean's balls. The press of it is slick and sweet. Dean closes his eyes and reaches for Sam's hand, wrapping Sam's long fingers around his own dick. Christ, it's so good. Sam must be leaking like crazy because there's no catch and drag where he's working his cock between Dean's thighs, just a wet slide that has Dean's skin singing. Sam's hand is rough on him, callouses from a lifetime of hard work like sandpaper.

"Didn't know if I'd ever see you again," Sam mutters, sounding more angry than relieved.

Dean knows about anger, but he also knows what's behind it. "I'm sorry." They're the right words to say. Knowing that doesn't make saying them any easier.

"I thought I'd find you dead." Sam bites Dean's neck, hard enough that Dean makes a surprised sound. "You can't do that to me."

"I know." Dean rocks his hips back to meet Sam's, wanting to make him feel good, an apology. "Won't do it again."

Sam rolls, pinning Dean to the mattress with his weight and grabbing hold of his wrists. The sheer size of him is overwhelming -- throwback to some kind of cave man, Dean thinks as Sam lines up his cock and presses the head of it inside Dean's ass. What was enough natural lubrication a minute before isn't nearly enough now, but Dean spreads his thighs an inch wider, making more space for Sam to thrust. It burns, feels like he's splitting open when Sam's cock pushes forward and Dean's body has no choice but to yield. He can't move; Sam's hands are holding his arms down, the bones in Dean's wrists grinding together.

"Tell me this is okay," Sam says. His voice breaks on the last word, and the little hitch is like a knife to Dean's heart.

"Yeah," he gasps, head turned to the side so he can breathe. "Yeah, it's -- fuck, _Sam_ \--"

"I love you so fucking much," Sam says, and starts to move.

Every forward thrust takes Dean apart a little bit more. He can't feel anything except Sam, and he doesn't want to. Sam's hands holding him down, Sam's cock working into him deeper with each rock of his hips. Sam is in control, breath hot on the back of Dean's shoulder, and he does this half-circle grind thing thats making Dean shudder and groan. It's so good. _Sam's_ so good, and Dean is a fucking idiot for thinking he could leave. He wants to do this forever, just lie here on this bed with Sam fucking him. He can already feel himself tensing, though -- there's no way to postpone it with Sam's cock stroking into him and his own dick rubbing against the mattress. His balls are drawing up and his fingers are curling, and as soon as he realizes Sam is starting to move faster it's over. Dean comes so hard he forgets to breathe, heat searing through him.

"Dean," Sam gasps. "Fuck, I'm --"

"Yeah, come on. Come on, Sammy." A few words of encouragement are the least he can do when he's still boneless and sweaty.

Sam stops moving, trembling. "I can't."

"Sam." Dean can't even turn over to see Sam's face. "Move. Get _off_ me." He's worried, not mad, but there's a sharpness to his tone that must get through to Sam because Sam pulls out of him -- _fuck_ \-- and rolls to the side. By the time Dean can flip himself over, Sam is lying on his back with an arm thrown over his face. "Dude."

"Don't," Sam says, and jerks when Dean lays a hand on his arm. "I can't."

"Can't what?" Dean wishes there wasn't a part of him pissed off that Sam can't just enjoy something instead of analyzing it to fucking death.

Sam shakes his head, then says, "It's too fucked up."

" _Everything_ is fucked up," Dean says. "The whole _world_ is fucked up. No, look at me." He shoves Sam's arm down so he can see Sam's face; there are tears in Sam's eyes. "Give me one good reason why we don't deserve to hang onto whatever we can. You think we should let this go because of some rule made up by a bunch of dead guys?"

"It's biology," Sam says flatly.

"It might be if one of us was a _girl_ ," Dean growls. "I'm pretty sure neither of us is going to get knocked up and pop out a mutant, so who cares? Don't we have a thousand other more important things to worry about?" This is the last conversation he wants to be having. In his head, it can be so simple. Why does Sam have to make it complicated?

"Yeah." Sam still looks miserable, and he's still hard. Probably just needs a decent orgasm to snap him out of this funk, Dean thinks.

"Shut your eyes," he orders, and Sam looks at him uncertainly. "Just do it."

Sam does.

Dean reaches out and closes his hand around Sam's dick, and Sam gasps. His eyes fly open. Dean says, "No, keep em closed," and Sam obeys.

He moves his hand slowly, sliding it down Sam's shaft to his balls. Weird how the skin moves. Okay, not _weird_ , but different from other parts of the body. There's no girl equivalent of this, soft, pliable skin over the harder flesh underneath. He likes the way his touch makes Sam's breath uneven and his hips lift.

"Good," Dean says, voice low and rough. "Just listen."

Sam's throat contracts as he swallows, and his nostrils flare, but he doesn't say anything.

"This is okay, Sam. We can have this. There's nothing wrong with it." As Dean talks, he realizes he's convincing himself at the same time he's trying to convince Sam. And it _is_ okay. They can do this. It'd be okay for them to do it even if there was anyone around to judge them, but there isn't. It's just them, and they can do whatever the hell they want.

This is what Dean wants to do. He wants to make Sam shudder and clench his hands into fists. He wants to watch Sam's mouth fall open as he's pushed closer to the edge, wants to count the strokes of his hand on Sam's dick once Sam's chin lifts toward the ceiling. He wants to convince Sam it's okay to fall apart.

He wants Sam to trust that he'll be here to put him back together.

"There you go. Come on. Do it."

Sam trembles, so tense it's gotta hurt, but he doesn't come. His balls are drawn up and his dick is so fucking hard in Dean's grip. He whimpers when Dean slows down his strokes just a little bit. "Dean."

"Not going anywhere," Dean reminds him. "Next time I'll suck you off. You'd like that, huh? Come in my mouth?"

That's all that Sam needs -- all his muscles lock up and he comes in quick, strong pulses, shooting as high as his chest. As he finishes, he shivers and puts his arm up over his eyes again. Dean's about to say something when Sam reaches out blindly with his other hand and grabs onto Dean's wrist, tugs him closer.

"I'll have to remember that," Dean says. "You, liking the idea of fucking my mouth."

Sam makes a little, choked sound that's half groan, half laughter. "You're an asshole."

"Tell me something I _don't_ know." Dean rests his chin on Sam's shoulder and drapes an arm over his chest. "We good?" It's the closest he can come right then to asking if Sam is okay, and he's a little scared of what the answer might be.

"Yeah." Sam sighs and turns his head. Is he _kissing_ Dean's hair? "Don't expect to hear this often, but you're right."

"I'm always right," Dean says.

"Asshole."

"Bitch." This is easy; Dean could do it forever.

They lie there for a while. Eventually Sam gets up and goes to get them something to eat, and Dean stretches and grins at the ceiling like an idiot until he comes back.

"You look happy," Sam says, handing him a box of crackers and sitting on the bed, which tilts alarmingly under his weight. Freak.

"Yeah? Guess I am." Dean crams a couple of crackers into his mouth and chews.

"Dude, don't chew with your mouth open," Sam says. "That's gross."

Dean throws a cracker at him. Sam tries to deflect it with his arm but it ricochets off and hits him in the face instead. Ha!

"Real mature, Dean," Sam says, but he's fighting a grin, Dean can see it.

"That's me," he agrees cheerfully. "Mr. Maturity." He tosses another cracker in Sam's direction but this time he misses by a mile.

Sam eats some fruit directly from the can. He uses a fork so the best part, the syrup, drips back down. "So..." He licks syrup from the fork and glances at Dean, then away. "What now?"

"What?"

"You know," Sam says. "What do we do next?"

"Well, we've got to figure out a way to get my car, for one," Dean tells him. "I'm not leaving her out there in the middle of nowhere. Nothing wrong with her that some new tires won't fix."

"Okay."

Dean fixes him with a look. "Okay? Seriously?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "What did you think I was going to say?"

"I don't know," Dean admits. "Just didn't think it'd be that easy."

"I'm pretty sure I just showed you how easy I am," Sam says, and Dean remembers they're both naked. "Dean... whatever you want. For real." His eyes are dark and warm. Looking at him makes Dean feel calm and brave and stupid and crazy at the same time.

Sure, he wants his car. He wants the freedom of the open road, the ability to pick up go on a moments notice, the illusion that life is a little less fragile.

But in the long run all he really wants -- needs -- is Sam.

 

 

End.

 

 

  


_Many thanks to Jane Davitt for the beta of the story, and to Dancetomato for helpful suggestions!_  
 _To see all of the spectacular artwork Sillie82 made to accompany this story,[go here.](http://sillie82.livejournal.com/296585.html)_  
 _For more of Sillie82's amazing fan art and original art,[click here.](http://sillie82.livejournal.com/259413.html#cutid1)_  


  



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